Devil's Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

Devil's Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1) Page 8

Marjorie studied Cormac's face. The candlelight caught the scar at his temple. It winked in the light, before falling back into shadow.

Cormac curled his lip. Slowly, he shook his head.

“Marjorie's mother was our mother's dearest friend. You will do this for her.” Gregor leaned forward, his usually jovial manner forgotten. “Mother would have wished it.”

This was going too far. Marjorie had simply wanted to make Cormac think she'd put herself in danger. Spur him to action.

Cormac tensed. “Think twice before you invoke our mother.” He blinked for a long moment. “You know as well as I that the boy is gone.”

Such dark words, so casually spoken. It shot a fresh spear of dread through her belly.

“He might not be gone.” Bridget reached over to pat Marjorie's hand.

“No,” Cormac said evenly. “The boy is gone. The world is cruel. It's time for Marjorie to accept it once and for all.”

He only spoke about Marjorie, not to her. Why wouldn't he address her? Did he blame her that much, hold her that accountable for the loss of Aidan? The loss of his mother?

“You will take a few days,” Gregor ordered. “Go with her to Aberdeen, have a look around the docks.” Marjorie sat frozen. She couldn't endure the fact that he wouldn't voluntarily help her. “No, truly,” she stammered. She'd wanted his help, but not like this. “I'm able to do this myself.” Gregor stared at his brother. “He'll come to his senses, won't you, Cormac?” Cormac gave her a cold look. If he hadn't hated her before, he'd surely hate her now, for putting him in this position. He was a proud man, and she'd set him up to take orders from his older brother.

Whatever it was she'd started, she needed to follow through now or seem a fool. But first she needed to get out of there. Cormac's glare told her there was no changing his mind. It seemed she really was going to the Aberdeen docks. By herself.

She dabbed her mouth then meticulously folded her napkin. “I'm afraid I shall have to excuse myself.”

“Marjie, wait,” Bridget said.

Marjorie got up quickly, meeting nobody's eye. She managed a shaky laugh. “Thank you for your hospitality. I'll be returning to Aberdeen… “

When?

An image of Davie came to her. Two missing teeth and perpetually soiled cheeks. His eyes were bright, always with a smile for “Marjrey.”

She needed Cormac's help, no matter the cost.

She braved a glance his way. He fisted his dinner knife as though ready to run someone through.

She had no choice but to force his hand.

“I'll leave tomorrow. If you'd be so kind as to lend me those trews?” She flicked a glance at Declan, catching his wide green eyes, and then fled the room.

Cormac stalked to the kitchens to forage for food. His appetite had fled the table with Marjorie, and now his empty belly was paying the price.

But he'd been furious. Furious his world had been so upended. That his entire family appeared set on forcing him to do their will. Furious at Marjorie's daft plan. And furious at himself for not being the man worthy of her.

Because he would make all her pain go away if he could. He'd take her and help her, and make it all better. But he was unable. He was his own mass of pain, a great black nexus of despair. Were he to go with her to Aberdeen, he'd be the one forced to show her how this Davie was gone forever.

And were he to go so far as to claim her as his own? To take her and claim her as he'd wished for his entire life? His own darkness would eventually destroy her.

He was about to step through the door when he heard hushed voices.

“Truly, I will,” Marjorie said.

The sound of her stilled him, as it always did. Like a damned buck catching a scent, Cormac froze.

“Are you certain you won't let me help?” his sister asked her. “I'll be simply devastated if something untoward comes to pass.” There was a rustling. “I am so sorry about Cormac. He really hasn't been himself since coming back from the wars.”

He fisted his hands, lips curling into a scowl. He's not acting himself? What do they call a lass in trews?

Marjorie was acting rash, foolhardy, and it made him angry.

He knew she acted thus to spur him to action, but he wouldn't be swayed.

He had a quiet life, alone. He had returned from the wars a changed man. Bearing the scars of what he'd seen, what he'd done. He'd come back and worked hard to carve out a piece of solitude in a world that made no sense.

Though his seclusion hadn't healed his wounds, it had numbed them. And here was Marjorie, dredging up old feelings, conjuring the old impotence of that day, the unendurable pain of it.

And this other boy who'd been taken? Cormac was unwilling even to let the child pierce his consciousness. Pain would only beget more pain.

“Don't worry for me,” he heard Marjorie say. The words echoed down the empty stone hallway.

“But you can't go alone.”

Cormac began to walk away. He refused to be pulled into her crisis, refused to be a party to it.

“Don't fash yourself on my account. I confess” — Marjorie laughed nervously — “I'm a bit frightened to go it alone. But I've thought of someone who can help. There is a man.” Cormac stopped dead. What man?

“A physician surgeon from Marischal College.” Marjorie's voice was tentative. Cormac leaned a hand against the cold stone of the corridor, listening. “He comes to help at Saint Machar. That's where we met. He's offered his…

support in the past.”

Cormac's body went rigid. What kind of bloody support?

“I think Archie… that's his name… “

Archie. He balled his hands into fists. So they were on intimate terms. How intimate? Rage coursed through him at the prospect. He'd find and kill the man who'd touched her.

“I don't think he'll let me go to the docks alone,” Marjorie continued. “He'll come with—” Cormac burst through the door, slamming it open hard. Marjorie and Bridget sat on stools by the cook fire, their hands earnestly clasped.

Marjorie stared at him, the words frozen on her lips. Her large blue eyes were all the more vivid for being so bloodshot. She'd been crying.

The sight of one plump tear rolling down her cheek cracked his resolve.

Damn the woman. And damn his pathetic weakness for her.

Cormac took a step toward her. “I'll take you to Aberdeen.”

Chapter 6

She awoke wanting a bath. But hauling fresh water to Dunnottar Rock was a luxury she'd not ask of the MacAlpins, and so Marjorie bent for a brisk splash along the shoreline.

The water was frigid, but she made quick work of it, chafing her face and darting her hands beneath her gown to scrub under her arms. Low, uneven waves slapped and ebbed, sucking at her feet. A breeze found the damp patches on her bodice, pebbling her skin tight, and she shivered with the pleasure of it.

Her last seaside wash had been with Davie. Stripping the boy down and tossing him in the waves had been the most effective way she'd found to get him cleaned. He loved splashing and dunking, grabbing for the small silvery fish that darted between his feet.

Dread turned her heart to lead. Davie surely wouldn't be enjoying any seaside baths now. What would he be doing?

Was he unhurt? Warm and fed?

She haphazardly scoured her ankles and calves. They had to get on the road quickly, before Cormac changed his mind.

Cormac. They had a long day's ride ahead of them. How would it be to travel with him for an entire day? Would he finally talk to her? How much did he resent her? The prospect made her queasy.

A distant splashing mingled with her own, so at first she didn't notice. But then Marjorie sensed a presence on the edge of her vision. She knew before she looked whom she'd find.

Cormac had haunted her thoughts and now seemed even to materialize like a ghost at the strangest of moments. On the edges of cliffs. During private talks. Of course he'd appear for her seaside wash.

She straightened, steeling herself for the sight of him. What would be the look on his face this time? She wondered if an easy smile would ever be waiting there to greet her, or if he'd always bear his grim mask.

Like iron to a lodestone, her head turned toward him. He was higher up the beach, but still close enough to see.

Cormac was emerging from the waves. Naked.

Oh sweet Lord. She blinked. She wasn't prepared for this.

It was improper to look, yet she couldn't bring herself to turn away. The early morning sun was low on the horizon, and his body glistened with light. Water drizzled down his shoulders and chest, disappearing into shadowed valleys of hard flesh. His hair was plastered to his brow, and the water made it appear almost black.

Her eyes went to his face, and he looked away before their gazes could catch. He bore a dark scowl.

Of course. Why would he be friendly? She'd forced his hand. She'd all but made him accompany her to Aberdeen.

He bent to retrieve his plaid from the rocks, and her gaze slid to the flex of his taut haunches. She gasped, widening her eyes. She'd never seen a naked man before. And Cormac wasn't just any man. He was lithe and muscled, confident and comfortable in his skin.

“I… I'm sorry,” she managed, grateful for the freezing water that numbed her feet, though it was her whole body she needed to dunk. Maybe then she'd be able to cool the hot flushing sensation that suffused her. “I didn't know you'd be here.”

He wrapped and tucked his plaid, and even though her cheeks burned hot, she couldn't look away.

“I could say the same to you,” he said blandly. “It's no' my beach.” Finishing, he walked toward her. There was such purpose in his stride, his body all fluid power.

She held her breath.

His eyes flicked to her bodice. She was exquisitely aware of it clinging damp and tight to her breasts. Her belly quivered with something that reached even her numbed toes.

“We leave once there's food in our bellies,” he told her. And then he simply walked on past.